


And to You Good Wassail, Too

by Dawnwind



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Christmas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Bodie and Doyle planned to do was go shopping for Christmas presents. Naturally, they show up at Harrods just as a bomb goes off. Loosely based on a real bombing at Harrods on December 17th, 1983.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And to You Good Wassail, Too

"Bloody hell, Bodie, look at the queue, we'll never get in," Doyle groaned, coming out of the tube station. "Good thing we left the car at your flat, the car park must be full to overflowing with holiday shoppers."

"Don't you have a single drop of Christmas spirit, Raymond?" Bodie waved a hand at the beautifully decorated store. "This is a tradition—people come from every country in the world to see Harrods in December."

The iconic store did look festive. There were dozens of holly wreaths, fairy lights outlining every arch and doorway, and wonderful depictions of happy families opening their splendid Christmas gifts—all available at Harrods—visible in the large plate glass windows. A queue of eager children and their parents stretched down Brompton Road all the way to the corner: the true believers on their way to see their patron saint, Nicholas himself.

"I'd rather not. What do we need with over-priced merchandise and pea-green carry bags?" Doyle rolled his eyes when Bodie grinned, pleased that he'd managed to get Doyle this far.

A busker to the left of the underground entrance sang a half-way decent rendition of _Silent Night_ and Bodie threw him a fifty pence piece, humming along. He started across the zebra crossing, knowing that for all his complaining, Doyle would follow him.

"Waste all your pay cheque on that lot," Doyle commented. "And I've no need to visit Father Christmas. I was three the last time I sat on his knee, and he never brought me a lorry all the same."

"Already a cynic by the age of three?" Bodie glanced over his shoulder. Doyle had his ratty tartan scarf wrapped twice around his neck, despite the mild winter weather. "I still remember when I was five, mum took me to have a picture taken with Father Christmas. I was dressed in short pants and a blazer, my school uniform."

"She didn't take you here!"

"Of course not, in Liverpool. To the church basement. It was all fixed up with a little tree and coloured baubles." Bodie laughed, remembering the shock of looking up at the figure dressed in red and white. "Recognised my uncle, my mum's brother, straight away. Knew then and there that Father Christmas wasn't real."

"What'd you ask for?" Doyle had a surprisingly soft, wistful look on his face.

"What I always did, a gun like John Wayne had."

"Six shooter?"

"No, one of them American Army machine guns. Battle for Iwo Jima." Bodie stopped on the corner to wait for a crowd of tourists, all holding London A-Z maps and arguing over their destination, to pass by.

"Yeah, I've seen it. Good film." Doyle grinned, and Bodie let himself fall into that smile, just a little bit.

He turned and nearly ran into a shopper loaded with bags all emblazoned with the green Harrods logo. "Excuse me, ma'am!" He almost wished he had a hat to tip to her, like an old fashioned gent. Nothing could spoil his mood on a day like this.

"Bodie," Doyle said into his ear. "We're never even going to get near the entrance at this rate. Tell me again why your nan really needs something from Harrods?"

"Because she lives in Little-Wesley-on-Mersey…"

"As opposed to Big-Wesley-on-Mersey." Doyle came back right on cue, with a gleam in his green eyes.

"There's only the little one, don't know why," Bodie answered, elbowing him in the ribs. "She's never been south of Liverpool in her entire seventy-nine years."

"And she brought you up," Doyle added, because he'd heard the story before. "After your mum died when you were eight."

"And she thinks Harrods is special." Bodie resorted to shoving his way through a knot of people on the street and finally saw his destination. The Hans Crescent entrance into Harrods. The small road was bustling, but the doors to the department store weren't choked with people like the main entrance. "See, we can go through the men's department without any trouble. Get her a bottle of scent, a tin of tea and biscuits. She likes chocolate digestives the best."

"Like her grandson," Doyle quipped.

Bodie nodded at the Harrods doorman in his green coat and let Doyle go into the store first. "Since we've come into this department, maybe I could get someone else a pressie."

"Yourself?" Doyle scooped up a blue and gold old-boys school tie. "Just the thing for the next time we're at Eton?" He held it under Bodie's chin.

"Perish the thought, old son." Bodie patted him on the cheek, lingering just a fraction too long so that he could run his thumb over the damaged place, just as he'd done the night before when they'd curled into one another, celebrating surviving another one of Cowley's ops.

"Oh, you'd rather a brand new jumper to wear whilst bowling a wicket, or whatever you cricketers do." Doyle waved a hand at a neat pile of cream coloured jumpers with pale blue and red stripes at the V neck.

They reminded Bodie of the current Doctor Who, the blond haired one who dressed in cricket togs. Not that he'd ever give Doyle the satisfaction of admitting that he still liked to watch Doctor Who.

"Come on, then," Bodie urged. "You didn't want to go shopping, now I can't get you out of the men's department?"

"May I help you, gentlemen?" A slender man with a prominent nose and a receding hairline came up behind them with the air of someone hoping for a large sale.

He wasn't going to get one out of the two of them, Bodie laughed to himself. He was just about to say no thanks when Doyle pointed back the way they had come.

"Those shirts with…" he started.

Bodie was never sure which happened first. Did he hear the hollow whump —like a basketball hitting a backboard—or see the plate glass window bow in as if it was made of rubber? Whichever—the concussive force of an explosion right outside the store created a sonic boom of solid noise that pushed in on his eardrums. The ground shook as if there were elemental forces at work. There was a violent whoosh as flames blossomed incandescent yellow and orange when the windows shattered, sending the shoppers nearest the Hans Crescent entrance to the floor, screaming in fear.

"Bloody hell!" Doyle shouted, grabbing Bodie's arm. "That was a…"

"Bomb." Bodie took in the blast site in an instant, his CI5 training shoving aside the happy shopper mentality.

Doyle nodded without speaking and ran off in the direction of the small group still crouched on the floor next to men's tailoring. "I'll get them out of here."

"That was most likely a car bomb, mate. What kind of emergency evacuation training have you had?" Bodie looked straight into the Harrods employee's eyes, and got absolutely nothing back. It was as if the man's entire brain had fled, leaving behind an empty shell.

"Bugger," Bodie snarled, glancing at the man's name badge before pushing him toward the interior of the store. "Wesley James, spread the word through the other departments—there's been a bomb and the store needs to be evacuated."

"Evac…?" Wesley gasped, trembling.

"Bodie!" Doyle herded his group of white faced shoppers forward. "Looks like an inferno out there. Two cars are on fire, from what I can see through the windows."

"You think it was IRA?" Bodie asked, taking Wesley's arm to lead him out of the men's department. "Wouldn't be the first time they've set off a bomb in central London."

Doyle shook his head grimly, obviously not ready to talk about the significance of the blast yet. Once they entered the cosmetics department, the atmosphere was amazingly different. It was as if no one else was aware of what had happened moments before. Cashiers stood calmly behind displays of mascara, lipstick and powder, encouraging shoppers to buy merchandise that cost more than they might have spent at any other store in the city.

Bodie swore under his breath, shoving the unresisting Wesley aside. "There's been an explosion outside the store! Didn't you hear it?" he announced irritably.

"Sir!" A young woman with the long Hapsburg jaw frowned in disapproval. "It's quite inappropriate to suggest such…." Her customer, an older woman wearing a Harrods print scarf over her elaborately curled hair stared at Bodie in shock.

"The street is on fire!" one of Doyle's little band of followers sobbed, clutching her child. A shrill wail went up from several other Harrods patrons as the news spread out from cosmetics to nearby halls.

"You're serious, aren't you?" the Hapsburg descendent whispered, grabbing a telephone.

Bodie gave silent thanks that someone in the store had some sense. Agitated patrons were all talking at once, their voices rising in volume, but no one moved.

"Never more, darling," Doyle said insolently. "Who's security in this place?"

Two men in full livery arrived at that moment, galvanizing the shoppers now pressed around Bodie and Doyle. A single scream started them rushing for the nearest exit just as a voice came over a hidden tannoy. "There's been an incident on the Hans Crescent side of the store. The public is asked to remain calm. Please walk to the nearest exit and assemble in Brompton Road…"

"Out this way, please!" a security guard called, pointing to the main entrances. "It's imperative that we clear the store!"

The announcement, and the green uniformed guards, somehow made it more real. Customers began to break down, some crying in fear, only a very few dashing frantically to the exits, pushing against the more sensible citizens in front of them. Overall, there was a sense of brittle wariness, the British stiff upper lip reasserting itself. Bodie had a sudden flash of the old WWII phrase his Nan still favoured, "Keep calm and carry on."

A gaggle of ladies pushed past him, their voices high pitched and full of alarm.

"Tread carefully!" Security guards reminded, spreading through the crowded corridor to get as many customers out in the shortest possible time

Bodie held back, glancing around the area for anything suspicious. He didn't expect to see some mad bomber lurking behind the Max Factor counter, but stranger things had happened. There was no way to get out of the store through the front doors, unless he wanted to run the risk of being crushed to the floor as the hundreds of shoppers converged on the main exits.

"Doyle, the old man hasn't called yet, but I have a feeling he will." Bodie inclined his head at the men's department and the inferno beyond. "Once more into the breach, dear friend?"

"Shakespeare, you are not," Doyle said with a grimace, wiping a shirtsleeve across the sweat on his face. Even this far from the roaring fire, the temperature had increased exponentially and the fiendish crackle of flames was audible. "What a horror show, setting off a bomb at one place sure to be crowded with shoppers in December."

They found a door with fewer people trying to escape and managed to get out of the store, but it was akin to emerging into hell. Traffic had come to a standstill and the street was filled with people as far as the eye could see. Shards of glass covered every single inch of the pavement and two armless manikins leaned crazily from the shattered display windows, mimicking the real tragedies. At the road junction, a policeman lay next to his police dog, both severely injured, man's red blood indistinguishable from canine. The air was thick with acrid smoke, and Doyle coughed.

Bodie elbowed someone in the ribs to give him a few inches of space and caught a glimpse of the bomb site to his right, on Hans Crescent. Flames engulfed two cars, one of them a panda car, and there were several bodies lying near by. The whoop-whoop of sirens brought back memories of the blitz during the war.

The London police had already set up temporary road blocks, but it was impossible to move one way or the other. There were thousands of people packed into a scant two blocks, every one of them scared out of their wits and needing to reconnect with displaced family members. Bodie heard snatches of conversations as he pushed past people.

 _"What happened?"_

"Must be terrorists!"

 _"Will there be another bomb?"_

That, of course, was the main question. Bodie didn't like the idea of more than one bomb, but it was a real concern. Not that he could do anything about it right now. There were so many people crammed onto the pavement that he was pressed up against Doyle from chest to groin. On any other day, he'd have welcomed the full body contact, but this was neither the time or the place.

"Clear the area!" a bobby called through a loud speaker. "Clear the area! The fire brigade must get through!"

Like the Biblical Red Sea, a wall of people backed up, letting two fire engines down the street to the blast zone. But the movement only squeezed those on the pavement nearest to Harrods back against the store wall until there was no way to move left or right. Bodie could hear Doyle cough again, and shoved his arm past the two bodies closest to him, searching for his partner.

One bloody year since Doyle had got out of the hospital after the shooting. One bloody year—to the fucking day. Fear clutched at Bodie's gut and he growled in his throat, ready to go for his gun if someone didn't move in the next second.

Abruptly, the throng in front of him shifted, two barrel chested men breaking away from the group which released the pent-up energy. People began to move in random directions, obviously disoriented and frightened. Past a couple of heads, Bodie caught sight of a mop of curls and a tartan scarf, and reached out to him. Doyle turned and saw Bodie, his face lighting up with recognition, but there were too many people between them to come together easily.

Taking a step off the kerb, Bodie felt a hand grasp his belt. "Hey, what…?" He jerked free, automatically going for his gun, only stopping when he saw who had attacked him.

"P-please?" A small girl shrank against the stone façade of Harrods, her bottom lip sucked under the upper one. Tear filled blue eyes looked up at him and she lowered the hand that had grabbed at his belt. "I can't find my mother."

"Where was she?" Bodie asked, taking a quick look around. Logically, he realised was that was stupid, since he didn't know what the girl's mother looked like. Doyle came up behind him and butted him with one hip, keeping his hands inside his jacket pockets. Relieved to have his partner at his side once again, Bodie turned back to the child. "What's your name?"

"Charlotte," she replied promptly, knuckling away the tears on her cheeks. "But I'm called Charlie."

"I'm Doyle," Doyle said, freeing one of his hands to shake Charlie's like a gentleman. "But me mates, of which Bodie here might be one, call me Ray."

"Raymond," Bodie corrected, just to be churlish. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the fire brigade focusing their hoses on the burning cars. Medics and other emergency personnel risked their lives by moving in close to the fire to tend to the critically injured.

"Are you always called Bodie?" Charlie asked, some of the fear in her hunched posture relaxing with the conversation. "Don't you have a proper name?"

"He's never proper." Doyle winked at Charlie, crouching down to her level.

Bodie judged her to be around twelve. She was wearing an expensive looking puffy green and purple ski jacket, a short black skirt, black leggings, floppy purple suede boots and tiny diamond studs in her earlobes. This was not some ordinary lass, but a girl from a possibly wealthy family. What the hell was she doing alone on Brompton Road?

"We rarely use his real name but if you want to really get up his nose, call him William." Doyle took her hand, gesturing across the street. "Looks like the police want us over there so they can string that yellow tape around everything."

Charlie nodded, craning her neck in an effort to look for her mother in the crowd. Her bottom lip slipped under her upper teeth again and she hiccupped. "But I was supposed to stay right on that corner. We always meet family there after our shopping."

She pointed to the opposite corner of Hans Crescent where a jewellry shop had once done a prosperous business. Now it looked more like a burned out ruin than a jewellry shop. The firemen had just put out the worst of the fire, but the erected barricades kept the public far away from the whole of Hans Crescent.

"Doesn't look like she is there, love," Bodie said, dodging knots of people to follow the two of them over to the far side of Brompton Road. "Why don't you and Doyle keep your eyes peeled while I call our boss? I suspect that he may be interested in what is going on here."

Doyle smiled softly at him over Charlie's fair head. "Tell the old boy we couldn't get his pressie."

Digging his r/t out of his jacket pocket, Bodie grimaced. "You're on your own there, Raymond. I've already got a bottle of Glenfiddich wrapped in gold paper back at my flat."

"Please keep out of the road!" a policewoman shouted at pedestrians walking too slowly. "The ambulance is coming through."

More emergency vehicles threaded through the restless crowd, disgorging medical personnel and the bomb squad dressed in padded protective gear.

"Are they dead?" Charlie asked, the tremble in her voice a prelude to more tears. "The dog over there is all over blood."

"I can't say from over here, but the medic looks to be taking good care of all the injured cops," Doyle said. "What's your mum look like? I'm taller, maybe I can spot her?"

"She's got a red cardigan on…" Charlie started.

Just about to push down on the transmit button on the r/t, Bodie was surprised to hear Cowley's thick Scottish burr erupt from the speaker.

"3.7! Where are you? Get over to Brompton Road There've been reports of an explosion at Harrods, and another bomb threat at Fortnum and Mason!" Cowley announced, barely taking a pause to breathe between each sentence.

"Yeah," Bodie said dryly. "We're on top of the situation, sir." He beckoned Doyle and Charlie into the minimal protection of a gap between two buildings so that they were out of the way of the bustling populace jostling for a space on the pavement.

"Well, report in, then!"

"Saw the bomb go off." Bodie shaded his eyes, watching a heartbreaking scene on the corner. He could just make out one of the metropolitan cops bend down to identify the corpse under a blanket and then rear up in horror. The man turned away, pushing his colleagues back, obviously overcome. Bodie knew the fear, the almighty horror of seeing a partner down on the ground, bleeding out.

"Bodie?" Cowley shouted through the r/t, and from his tone, it wasn't for the first time.

 _Damn!_ Bodie had let his emotions run away from him at precisely the wrong time. Not good.

Doyle flashed him a look of annoyance and plucked the r/t out of his hand. "Situation's quite chaotic here, sir," he explained, pressing down on the talk button. "We were already at Harrods when the bomb went off—helped evacuate the store, and are dealing with the displaced citizens just now." He smiled at Charlie and tugged affectionately on her hair.

Bodie glowered at him and tried to get the r/t back but Doyle switched it to his opposite hand.

"Johnny on the spot, you both are!" Cowley's voice crackled through the radio transmitter. "Any word on who set the device?"

"Not at present, sir, but we will coordinate with the police and…" Doyle caught Bodie's eye and waggled a finger at an important looking man with smoothly combed hair and a Burberry overcoat talking to the chief of the fire brigade.

Charlie peered out at the man in question with inquisitive eyes. Bodie clasped her hand, turning her in the other direction just as the medics helped a man with a gushing head wound into an ambulance. No need for the girl to have the same nightmares that occasionally plagued him.

Bodie didn't have to read his partner's mind to know what he was wondering about. He recognised the man immediately. Not his favourite sod by half, but a worthwhile source of information from MI5. "Nigel Waterhouse," he whispered.

Doyle tapped his own nose. "We'll be interfacing with Waterhouse of MI5 next, sir. But—"

"Get cracking, man!" Cowley insisted. "I want the two of you on full duty. An anonymous phone call taking responsibility for the bomb came in not fifteen minutes ago."

Smoke was getting even thicker in the air and the acrid scent wrinkled Bodie's nose. He didn't even want to think what it might be doing to Doyle's damaged lung, or even Charlie's smaller lungs. The crowd shifted and swirled as families found one another and others mourned their wounded friends. This must have been what London was like during the war—the smoke defining exactly where the blast had occurred.

Bodie leaned in to Doyle to speak into the r/t. "Fifteen minutes? That would put the call around the time the bomb went off, just about a quarter before one. Did the caller give a time for the other bomb?"

"Less than an hour," Cowley growled. "I want you two back here now. 6.2 is taking a team to Fortnum and Mason as we speak."

"Bloody hell!" Doyle exclaimed, swinging his arm wide in surprise and nearly smacking Bodie in the chest with the r/t. "They hit two major shops on the busiest shopping day of the year."

"Observant, 4.5," Cowley said dryly.

"Sir." Bodie grabbed the transmitter away from his partner before he brained poor Charlie, too. "We have a bit of a…"

"No time for delays, man!" Cowley continued bombastically. "Staff have already begun evacuating Fortnum and Mason, so we have a chance to save some lives."

"I'll just wait here for my mother," Charlie said quietly, fiddling with the zipper of her ski jacket. She shivered with a dispirited shrug, scanning the mass of people for a familiar face.

"We'll take care of you, love," Doyle said and coughed into his fist.

"Who was that?" Cowley demanded.

"What we've been trying to tell you." Bodie thumbed the speaker button in consternation. The old man would go on and on. "Like Doctor Who, we've found ourselves a small companion, Charlotte…" He realised she'd never told them her surname.

Two ambulances screamed down Brompton, transporting the first of the wounded to hospital.

"Mills," Charlie said helpfully. "My dad's called Robert and mother is Felicity."

"Repeat that?" Cowley said more quietly. "It's difficult to hear over all those sirens."

"A young lady, approximately…" Bodie winked at her, earning a little grin. "Twenty, would you say, Doyle?"

"I'm twelve!" Charlie said loudly into the r/t. "Charlotte Mills."

Doyle turned his body so that he was barricading their little sanctuary from a large group rushing past, all speaking German.

"Where's your father now, Charlotte Mills?" Cowley's voice crackled and popped over the increasingly bad reception from the transmitter.

Bodie wondered if the confluence of emergency personnel, with all their police radios, was causing the interference. The r/t was top of the line and usually didn't malfunction.

"At a conference, in Spain."

"Would your father be Sir Robert Mills, the financier?"

"Yes! Can you call him? There's no phone box here," Charlie said breathlessly, that very young belief that adults can solve everything coming to the forefront. "My mother's gone missing."

Doyle glanced at Bodie over Charlie's head, his green eyes wide with surprise. "Do you think the bomb could have been a diversion to grab…?" he whispered.

Bodie shook his head, completely on Doyle's wave length. He didn't want to entertain the possibility that some person would cause such damage to so many in order to kidnap the wife of one of the wealthiest men in Britain. He only hoped Mrs Mills was simply separated from her daughter in the crowd.

"Where are the three of you?" Cowley asked.

"Across the street from Harrods, sir," Bodie answered, watching three policemen set up a portable screen around the still smoldering panda on the corner of Hans Crescent. "Brompton Road is packed with people, and cordoned off. No way to get out of here unless we walk for quite a distance."

"Then get walking!" Cowley shouted. "I'm sending Susan in my car to fetch Charlotte—rendezvous at Knightsbridge and Trevor, perhaps?"

"On our way, sir!" Bodie clicked off thankfully and gazed out at the thick cluster of humanity crammed into such a small area. Police were threading through the crowd taking names and addresses of the displaced. Nigel Waterhouse was now conferring with a pompous looking gent sporting a larger than necessary mustache.

"Did he memorise a bloody London A to Z?" Doyle groused.

"We have to walk?" Charlie quavered, sucking on her bottom lip.

"Just like Barbara Woodhouse," Bodie said, going for cheerful and not sure he'd succeeded from the expressions on the other two. "Walkies, Charlie!" He grabbed the little girl's hand. "You, Goldilocks," he said to his partner, "need to parlez with Waterhouse and then catch up with us on Knightsbridge."

"And ta, to you, too," Doyle said with a sneer, but he stuffed his scarf more firmly into the front of his jacket. "Think I have legs like a rabbit, do you?"

"I think you have some…" Bodie clamped his mouth shut on what he was about to say, glancing down at the very interested blue eyes staring up at him. "Long legs that can walk faster than hers." He wasn't keen on leaving Doyle alone. What if there were more bombs at Harrods? The damage had been substantial, but a delayed explosion, set to go off when there were masses of people in the street, could be cataclysmic. Useless to dwell on the unknown, imagining dire consequences had no purpose. "I'll wait there. We can catch a bus back to my flat, grab the Capri."

"Then fetch us a cup of tea until I get there, will you?" Doyle asked. "And something to eat."

"Peckish, old son? Look for me in the closest pub on Trevor, with a pint in my fist." Bodie tugged Charlie's hand, setting off down Brompton to where it joined with Knightsbridge. "You peckish, Charlie? I could eat about six mince pies."

"Rather have a packet of chocolate biscuits," Charlie said forlornly, trotting beside him. "D'you think my mother is de… hurt? She was to be right near where the car exploded…"

"A woman married to a sensible man like Sir Robert Mills, who wears a smart red cardigan on a day such as this?" Bodie kept up the patter to distract the both of them. He didn't even look back to watch Doyle disappear into the sooty smoke enveloping the length of Harrods. "She'd have found a safe haven, just as you did, and waited out the danger. Just unfortunate that you two were separated. But my boss, Mr Cowley will get the two of you reunited, or Bob's not your uncle."

Charlie giggled. "Bob's my dad! You're daft."

"Me? Perish the thought. Now what were you doing shopping alone?" He glanced across the road before stepping off the kerb to cross what was usually a busy street. This close to the bomb site, there were no cars being let through and the crossing was empty.

"My first time." Charlie shrugged, slowing to examine a Christmas display in the window of a bookshop.

A well stuffed Father Christmas doll was handing out brightly wrapped gifts to a cluster of doll children. One boy doll with dark yarn for hair wore short pants, a blue blazer and a red and blue striped tie. The jolly chap in red was holding out book on guns tied with a red bow. Gawking at the oddly reminiscent scene, Bodie almost got whiplash when Charlie pulled him forward along the pavement.

"I had a ten pound note," she said. "Mother gave me one hour to go into Harrods to find a gift for her, then we were going to have tea."

A special rite of passage, first time shopping alone, destroyed by damn terrorists. Bodie pressed his lips together, the anger in his belly increasing. Not to mention his own gift buying plans gone. He'd never have time to buy his nan a pressie at this rate.

"You tell Mr Cowley that I want to know the moment your mum arrives to get you, right?" Bodie said, weird half memories of the last time he'd seen his mother, when he was younger than Charlie, and flashes of her funeral slamming into him. He wouldn't wish that kind of pain on another child, ever.

Not that he hadn't had a wonderful childhood. Eileen Bodie had loved her grandson dearly. She had ensured that he had good clothes and was well educated, but still, he'd mourned his mother Sheila every day of his life.

"Ray's not coming yet," Charlie said when they turned onto Knightsbridge. "Where is he?'

"Doyle's got to talk to every one of the police and that Mr Waterhouse. It'll take a while," Bodie said, chastising himself for picturing another bomb going off and destroying Harrods completely, along with a certain green eyed golly. "Keep your eye out for a red car, driven by a beautiful blonde with big round glasses like a gigantic fly."

"You're horrible!" Charlie smirked, sucking on her bottom lip. The brisk air had pinked up her cheeks. "Mother has got large round glasses as well, but I think they make her look more like a wise owl. A lovely owl."

Bodie was beginning to want to meet Felicity Mills very much indeed. They had just reached the corner of Trevor Street when a small red car pulled up, driven by the lovely Susan. She parked by the kerb next to a post box.

"Well timed!" Bodie greeted her. "Charlotte Mills, this is Miss Susan Webber, or Agent 7.4 to those on less friendly terms."

"You do go on." Susan rolled her eyes, climbing out of the car so that Bodie got a nice look at her long, elegant legs when her deep blue coat gaped open. "Lovely to meet you Charlotte. Mr Cowley told me to tell you that there is already a phone number for displaced families to call, and we should have your mum sorted out in a tick."

"Charlie, you go back to headquarters with Susan, and I'll call you soon." Bodie placed a kiss on her smooth forehead. "Unfortunately, I've got work to do."

"Can't I stay with you?" Sudden tears welled up in Charlie's blue eyes and she shuddered. "I've just got to know you…!"

"Hey!" Bodie felt mortified shunting the child onto yet another unknown adult like this. He knew the feeling all too well. "Just ask the Cow—er, Mr Cowley…" As he expected, the irreverent nickname earned a quavery smile from the girl. "And he'll supply you with all the chocolate biscuits you like. Tell him to get Cadbury, the best kind with the orange crème in between the wafers."

"I do like those…" Charlie said doubtfully.

"I know a shop where we can stop." Susan winked. "Because right now, I'd love some Cadbury's chocolate, too. What do you say?"

"You'll call?" Charlie asked as she got in the car. "I want to know that Ray's all right."

 _Ah, puppy love,_ Bodie thought with a smile. "I will, love, never you fear," he promised. Thing was, he wanted to know Ray was all right, too. In his mind's eye, he could still see Doyle silhouetted against the pyre in Harrods' windows.

Pulling out his r/t, Bodie was just about to mash the talk button when Cowley's voice blared through the speaker. "3.7, come in!"

Just as startled the second time around, Bodie shook his head with a grim smile. "Here, sir. Any more news?"

"The second bomb went off at Fortnum and Mason," Cowley announced solemnly. "The store had been evacuated, but the bomb squad had not yet ascertained which car held the explosives, and one technician was close enough to the vehicle when it went off to be injured, but luckily, he was wearing his bomb disposal gear."

"Bloody hell," Bodie said softly, leaning against the rough brick of a building. Passers by glanced warily at him talking into his r/t, but none approached him.

"CI5, Metropolitan Police and the London Times all got a call at precisely the same time that the bomb detonated," Cowley explained. The reception was far better on the r/t than previously. Bodie would have sworn Cowley was only a few feet away instead of miles. "He predicted more bombs in the London area throughout the day, and rang off."

"Any information on the caller? Did he specify where the bombs would be?"

"The male voice was distorted by some sort of electronic apparatus, but he used an IRA codeword…"

Bodie's heart sank. Damn, the IRA had targeted far too many popular London sites in the past. At least there was no possibility that this was just an assault on the Mills family.

"The call lasted less than a minute, and Rogers tried for a trace but it was far too short a time to get a good location." Cowley harrumphed loudly through the speaker. "We can only assume, from the two previous devices, that the group—assumably the IRA—is targeting popular shopping districts."

"Should we put a warning out on the radio and the BBC to avoid Oxford Street and Piccadilly, places like that?" Bodie asked, checking out the peaceful street where he stood. There was tinsel wrapped around lamp posts and a jolly inflatable Father Christmas in the window of a children's clothing shop.

"In the works, 3.7. Och, what a tragedy at Christmas time. What were these bully boys thinking?"

"Thinking that they'd get our notice, sir," Bodie answered grimly. "And they did."

"Undeniably."

A police car slowed down just opposite Bodie and pulled up to the post box where Susan had parked before. Bodie spotted a very familiar head of curls in the passenger seat.

"Sir, Doyle's back. We'll be in touch—and ready to report to the next bomb site, if necessary."

"While I pray that the danger is behind us, I fear that we have more unpleasantness in the hours ahead."

Bodie switched off, watching Doyle climb out of the car. He didn't have a long coat to swing out and reveal his legs, although, in Bodie's estimation, Doyle's were equal or better to Susan's. He did have a very tight bum which was nicely framed by his woollen jacket.

"You get nicked?" Bodie tucked the r/t in his coat pocket and raised his eyebrows as the police car drove away.

Doyle waved goodbye to the officer. "An old mate from the force. Where's me cuppa?"

"Haven't got it yet, have I?" Bodie held out his empty hands. "Talking to Father. Bomb at Fortnum and Mason went off, but luckily, Joe public was well out of the way. A chap from the bomb squad just missed having his bollocks blown off."

Doyle's pained expression said it all. "We have to report in just now?"

"I take it you're still hungry." Bodie laughed, because he was the one who was usually poking about for comestibles.

"Don't know why." Doyle rubbed his belly, leading the way to a cheerful, homely shop that sold tea and sandwiches. "The death toll is enough to put anyone off his grub."

"How many?" Bodie asked soberly.

"Dozens injured. Three constables killed," Doyle said, his voice thick with sadness, but the expression on his face looked more like he wanted to bust a few heads. "One was a lovely bird named Jasmine. I've met her, just after she came on the force a few years ago. Then, you saw the police dog. And some civilians dead, as well—including a gent from the States. This is international already."

"Cowley says the caller gave an IRA codeword." Bodie glanced around the restaurant. Not too crowded, no-one close enough to overhear them, and the food looked edible.

"Waterhouse said much the same," Doyle agreed, selecting a table against the wall and sitting down. A busy waitress with a white tea towel tucked into her skirt nodded to them while serving another customer. "Although, getting that out of him was like pulling teeth. Inter-departmental cooperation does not appear to be his byword."

"He's always up on his high horse. Everyone knows he's in charge, and that's how it will remain."

"Touche." Doyle elbowed him and grinned at Bodie.

Bodie could never resist that off-kilter smile and grinned back at him.

"Don't fancy the possibility of another bomb goin' off, though," Doyle added, glancing at the hand printed menu on the table.

"What's this then?" The waitress, who was old enough to be Bodie's mother if she was a day, bustled over to their table. "You 'eard about 'arrods bein' bombed? Shame, that is! I don't have a tup'ence t'shop there, but it does draw in the tourists—who often need a cuppa tea for afters, don't they? And then where do they come?"

"Here?" Bodie put in, because he knew he was supposed to. "May we get two teas, and I'd like a chicken sandwich."

"Savoury cheese for me," Doyle said, loosening his scarf.

"Yeah, all right." She bobbed her head. "Tea'll only be a mo, and the sandwiches a minute longer. Nelly Coats doesn't let two young blokes like yourselves go wanting."

"Thank you, my lady Nelly," Bodie said graciously, giving a little bow.

"Bless, aren't you fancy!" she exclaimed with a twinkle that said she was on to him.

"Another admirer." Doyle kicked him under the table. "The older ones always love young William."

"Where does that put you?" Bodie asked, raising his eyebrow.

"In a category all by myself, as always."

"Glad you said it and not me," Bodie purred, low and sensual. It was the wrong place and the wrong time, but for some reason, he didn't want to let Doyle out of his sight. He wasn't about to waste a single moment while they were together.

"There you go, loves." Nelly placed two steaming cups of strong, dark tea in front of them. "And you, sunshine." She pointed at Doyle. "Put some of that full cream milk in yours, you're thin as a whippet, you are. Liken to blow away in a breeze."

"Yes, ma'am," he answered with a cheeky grin. "Just like having me mum here, all over again."

Nelly winked and hurried back to her kitchen.

Bodie grabbed the milk pitcher first, to hide his foreboding at the image of Doyle blowing away in a breeze.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Alpha One to 3.7," Cowley called over the r/t.

"Just make it back to the car in time to be summoned," Doyle groused, jerking open the car door.

"Take this since I'm driving." Bodie handed over the r/t and turned the key in the ignition of the Capri. He would have liked to go up to his flat and maybe change clothes from the suit he has worn to go to Harrods. Most probably, he'd get covered in dirt and grime, maybe even oil, which was impossible to get out of good wool. But, when Father called, they jumped—or paid the price. Which in his case might be a new suit.

"4.5, here," Doyle responded, bracing himself when Bodie swung the car around in the narrow road. "D'you have word of another threat, sir?"

"The terrorists just called in a bomb at the C&A on Oxford Street," Cowley said grimly. "Metropolitan police are on their way, but I want the two of you there to coordinate with them in the search for the explosive device. The bomb squad is stretched thin with so many sites across the city, and both of you have had training in bomb disposal."

Sharp teeth bit into Bodie's chest at the very thought of having to defuse another bomb. The memory of tension, his muscles straining to maintain a frozen position while Doyle cautiously explored the workings of his telephone gripped him, robbing him of breath. Happy that he now had a destination, Bodie concentrated on getting across London to Oxford Street in the midst of a busy shopping day one week before Christmas.

"On our way, sir." Doyle clicked off with a bilious twist of his mouth. "Bloody IRA—Not enough to stir up trouble in Belfast, they have to endanger untold numbers here, when the most damage can be done."

"You've said that once already today," Bodie pointed out, glancing over at his partner.

"Yeah, well!" Doyle smacked the dashboard savagely. "Ain't right, depriving small children of…wonder, fantasy. They've unleashed their violence on something special."

"Didn't take you for a sentimentalist, Raymond." Bodie was impressed. "Where's the three year old cynic who didn't believe in jolly old St. Nicholas?"

"It's all right for me," Doyle said defensively, hunching his shoulders. "But Charlie and…" He obviously couldn’t come up with the names of any other children off the top of his head.

"She told me this was her first time alone at Harrods," Bodie said quietly.

"Ought to be practicing for the Nativity play and going skating on the local pond 'stead of being tucked up in the Old Man's office worrying about what's happened to her mum," Doyle said viciously.

"And what would you know about the Nativity play?"

"Got four older sisters, haven't I?" Doyle held up the corresponding number of fingers. He looked relieved to be talking about something other than explosions and death. "Each one of them keen to be Mary, mother of the babe. Which cast me as a shepherd or a wise man every year, and once Joseph himself, paired with my next older sister Kathleen."

"That I'd have liked to see!" Bodie slapped the steering wheel with glee. "In a striped dressing gown with a tea towel tied around your head with a cord."

"Spot on. No photographs survive of my illustrious career on the boards." Doyle rolled his eyes. "Me Da was not pleased to find his favourite attire conscripted into the production. He didn't hold with the C of E."

"Oh?"

"He was one of them evil Papists, as my mum used to say," Doyle recounted.

"And yet she married him anyway."

"Doyle men are known for our rakish good looks." Doyle stretched his mouth into a parody of a grin that emphasised his chipped tooth and misaligned cheekbone. "He believed more in a pint of Guinness than the Holy Word on a Sunday morning."

"And here we are…" Bodie pulled onto Oxford Street at Marble Arch, and ground to a halt. Cars, taxi and even a red double-decker bus were all crammed bumper to bumper in a sea of vehicles. It was obvious that the street up ahead was cordoned off, and getting there would prove dicey, if not downright impossible. Many motorists were holding down their horns, creating a horrible racket.

"Damn—we could sit here and admire the Christmas lights, I suppose." The famous Oxford Street display was spectacular. Every shop and building was bedecked with twinkling bulbs. Selfridges was straight out of a fairy tale, all glimmer and gold. Bodie glanced over at Doyle. His partner was stewing again. "Did you see the actress from Coronation Street turn the lights on this year?"

"My telly only gets footie and American films, not the pabulum of the masses." Doyle settled his tartan scarf around his neck. "I propose we get out and walk."

"Nowhere to leave the car, Admiral Byrd."

"Hold on, there's a traffic warden." Doyle swung the door open and hopped out into the swarm of shoppers and cars disrupted in their Christmas present buying.

Bodie didn't have a chance to yell after him, but kept his eye on Raymond whilst inching the car forward. The Capri was already touching the bumper of the Range Rover in front when he was forced to stop again.

Several police constables were trying to divert the cars onto another street to the right because of the bomb threat, but that had only exacerbated the massive snarl. Bodie saw Doyle hold his identification in front of a pretty, dark haired traffic warden with a dimple in her cheek. She gave him a dazzling smile, beckoned to one of her colleagues and followed Doyle back to the Capri. Bodie had only moved about ten feet in the short time.

"Bodie!" Doyle called through the open car window. "Meet Police Constable Ruby Stewart. She's going to drive the car to a car park whilst we take to the pavement to get to C&A."

"Hello! Glad to be of service to CI5," Ruby said brightly, taking off her cap. "It'd be impossible to drive any closer, but you've only got three streets to go."

"And not much time, I expect." Bodie reluctantly gave over the steering wheel to the young woman. Either he was getting far older than he'd realised, or the police force was hiring teens straight out of high school. "Steady on the gear lever, she sticks in reverse."

"Then I won't back up." Ruby dimpled at him and slid into the car.

"Come on!" Doyle was already loping up the street, dodging between two lorries because the pavement was just as congested with pedestrians. "Bo-die!"

Bodie had the longer legs but Doyle was running flat out, and it took all of Bodie's stamina to catch up with him. He still carried a ball of fear in his belly for Doyle. There was no reason to have such foreboding—they'd been in many dangerous situations, before, and after, they came together as more than just simple partners. He was used to tucking aside any worry for Doyle's safety, but today, it would not leave.

Was it because Doyle had been shot a year earlier? Or something more ominous? Bodie refused to believe in premonitions and other such superstitious beliefs. There was no such thing as precognition, just as there was no real Santa Claus. That was all hype from the Americans, who seemed to thrive on the biggest, best and most outrageous when it came to Christmas.

He would have laughed at that if he'd had any wind left. The Americans also seemed to think that Victorian England had invented Christmas, not to mention fairy stories.

C&A appeared to be trying to foster that belief. As Bodie got closer, he could see the store was decorated like a giant old fashioned Christmas card — and ringed with a dozen coppers and hundreds of shoppers. Fairy manikins fluttered around the ground floor store windows, sprinkling scenes of Christmas morning with glittery dust.

"Clear the area!" A portly police constable called through an megaphone, directing the mass of people to walk quickly down the west side of the street and away from the store.

"B-bloody hell, Doyle!" Bodie pushed past a clump of civilians to catch up with his partner. "You must be putting in extra time running Macklin's obstacle course."

"He thinks the bullets decreased my speed," Doyle said grimly, watching as the bomb disposal unit wheeled a robot out from a small van. He was breathing heavily and wiped his forehead with the end of his scarf. "Had to prove him wrong, didn't I?"

"That robot supposed to suss out which car has the bomb?" Bodie wondered aloud. He started to duck under a streamer of tape barricading the street but several police turned around to bar their way.

"What make was the one parked alongside Harrods?" Doyle asked, flipping his identification at a man with a bristly mustache. "We're CI5," he said, looking at Bodie instead of the Detective Inspector.

"Bodie." Bodie tapped his chest. "And Doyle. George Cowley sent us over."

"Good!" Mustache sighed with relief. "At least we got the robot over from Fortnum and Mason more quickly than anticipated because of the explo…" he broke off, obviously flustered. The tips of his nose and ears were red but the rest of his face was pale with the strain. "D.I. Matthew Collins. This is my first bomb threat."

 _It showed._ "I'd never know," Bodie said, clapping the man's shoulder. "Can K9 there detect an explosive device before it goes off? Or does it just take pictures and some poor bloke in a quilted Michelin man suit goes in to cut the red wire?"

"No sonic screwdriver," Doyle said low and sardonic.

"The red wire?" Collins gasped. He swung around to watch the yellow robot roll slowly over to a line of cars parked by the kerb yards from the front entrance to C&A. Christmas lights traced the letters of the store's name, already illuminated in the rapidly dimming daylight. C blinked on in red and A blinked off in green, continuously.

"That's his poor attempt at levity," Doyle said dryly. "We'll need to contact our superior. Could you fetch the head of the bomb unit over?"

"I'll have you know that I'm considered quite humourous," Bodie said loftily after Collins had hurried off. The undulating tones of an ambulance echoed off the walls of the buildings and cut off abruptly when the ambulance breached the snarl of traffic and parked on one side of the cleared street. Bodie hated seeing evidence that injuries and casualties were expected.

Most of the civilians had evacuated, leaving only the ranks of police monitoring the robot, but it was clear that no-one was quite sure what they should be looking at. Was the bomb planted in a car as the first two had been?

"You know I broke my humerus when we were looking after Annie," Doyle said with a hint of a defiant smile. He blew on his hands, the temperature was dropping as twilight approached, and it was cold.

"Puns in the face of adversity, Raymond?" Bodie growled, but he needed the joking to dispel the doom and gloom. He hauled out the r/t and finally got to speak before Cowley did. "3.7 to Alpha one!"

There was the usual squawks and popping hisses before the old man came on. "Go ahead, 3.7."

"What make of car was used at the other sites?" Bodie asked.

Collins came back, followed by a short gentleman with a heavy fire brigade helmet on his head. "This is Unit Commander Lieutenant Kluger."

"I'd like an overview of what's been done so far," Doyle said, drawing Kluger aside so he wouldn't overhear Bodie on the r/t.

"Who was that, 3.7?" Cowley barked.

"4.5's gone to speak with the bomb squad, sir," Bodie related. "We have a robot examining the cars in front of the store, but no luck so far." He tracked the robot's infinitely slow progress as it ran a long arm with a camera under the carriage of each vehicle and then over the bonnet and boot. This was going to take forever, and his gut told him they didn't have much more than a quarter of an hour, if that. Luckily, most of the other officers and technicians were well away from the front of C&A.

Bodie's heart did a little flip when he realized that Doyle and Kluger were in deep conversation, walking around the far end of the parked cars to the front windows of the store. They were on the complete opposite end of the row from the robot, but still closer than anyone else to the threat of the bomb. "Sir? The make of the car that exploded at Harrods? And at Fortnum and Mason," he repeated.

"Aye, was a 1972 blue Austin GT four door, at Harrods," Cowley said after a pause and a faint rustling of papers. "The car at F&M was an even older model, a black 1970 Citroen CV."

"No similarities," Bodie groaned, disheartened, He'd hoped that he could recognise the bomb car by some sense of what had been used before. Or maybe even that mysterious premonition. But no—most of the cars he could see were late models, made after 1975. He counted the vehicles, ten in all, and the robot was still on the third one, taking its precious time examining every inch of the underside for bomb paraphernalia.

One of the experts called out, pointing to something on his screen, and several of his colleagues ran over to check whatever he had seen.

"Sir, we may have found something," Bodie announced into the r/t.

"Keep me informed, 3.7," Cowley said tersely. "Oh, and your young lass is settling in nicely and her mother's already called in on the phone line, but we have yet to meet her."

 _Your young lass._ Bodie nodded to himself, glad something had gone right on this disastrous day. Trotting over to the van equipped with all the monitors and controls for the robot, he sought out Doyle. Kluger had come back to the van, scrutinising the video monitor. Ray was still on the pavement, now conferring with the bomb squad member kitted up in his padded bomb protection. Both watched the robot with a frown. Doyle looked narrow and breakable next to the bomb guy's roly-poly suit.

"Doyle!" Bodie yelled, "Move your arse!"

Doyle raised his head, nodded in Bodie's direction, and continued talking to the other man, although they did start walking past the huge display windows of C&A. The fairy manikins appeared to be anointing Doyle's curls with pixie dust.

"Only a shadow," the bomb tech in the van said in frustration, tapping his finger on his hazy gray screen. He let out a breath and flicked a switch to reanimate the frozen robot. It came to life with a jerk, trundling on to the next car in the row, a sleek red Jaguar.

"Fine motor. Be a shame to have that 'un blow sky high," Collins commented, leaning against the van with his arms crossed. "Kluger, any news?"

"Nothing more from HQ," Kluger said. "The original caller didn't give an actual time when the bomb would be detonated, which only makes our work harder. Don't know when the damned thing is set to go off."

"Could be minutes?" Collins asked.

"The first two went off at sixteen minutes to the hour. Harrods at 12:44 and Fortnum's at 1:44," Bodie put in, scanning the pavement. He flicked his eyes over Doyle, examined the window displays, and came back to Doyle again. The constriction in his chest lessened, his partner was finally on the move, striding past the cars toward the corner.

"They must have changed their strategy. We've passed that." Kluger held up his left wrist to show a complicated Swiss watch. "It's bang on three o'clock."

Something caught in Bodie's throat, and it wasn't the sight of Doyle's well rounded arse. He scanned the store front from left to right once again, forcing himself to see the smallest details. The fairies suspended above each window, their arms outstretched as if unfurling magic on the manikin children below. The multitudes of white lights outlining every window frame and doorway—each bulb a potential weapon if even one blew. The different toys and gifts on display.

The first window portrayed a family at a dinner table, the goose cooked to perfection and two small manikin children laughing with joy as they pulled their poppers. The other plate glass window, on the far side of the main entrance, had a wintery, outdoor scene. Snow fairies cavorted in the air directly above manikin children collecting skis from the roof of a small car, a festive red Cooper mini—the only car small enough to fit in the store display.

"Fuck!" Bodie shouted, his eyes frozen on his partner. He started running without realising that his feet were moving. "The car in the window! Doyle!"

"Stop!" someone behind him yelled.

The plate glass suddenly swelled outward as if the whole thing had turned to gel, and there was a huge noise that shoved in on Bodie's eardrums. With a sickening whoosh as if all the available air was abruptly sucked out, fire exploded from the display, shattering the panes in each window and every single light bulb on the building.

Bodie hit the pavement hard, on his hands and knees. He saw Doyle's body suspended, like Superman flying, for one impossible second before he disappeared below the line of the now burning cars. The robot and the Jaguar were engulfed in flames.

Everything seemed to freeze and then start up in slow motion, with almost no sound. Bodie staggered to his feet, trousers shredded, knees skinned and stinging, but he didn't care. He shoved aside a man in front of him, plowing through the jumble of fire fighters and debris to get to his partner. There was no other goal.

 _He'd failed._

He'd known all day that something dire was in the air. He had not heeded the warnings, and this was the result. No matter that so many civilians had been saved at the cost of his partner.

Noises reverberated inside his head, his hearing alternating between near deafness and a weird hollowness that distorted all sound. Every person shouting at him could have been miles away, on a badly tuned transistor radio. Bodie ran, leaping over water hoses and smoldering masonry, feeling like the short distance between himself and Doyle had stretched to unfathomable lengths.

Doyle lay unmoving, with his head in the gutter, blood slicking his misaligned cheek, and his hands were curled under him as if he had tried to break his fall. The bomb disposal guy was just lurching to his knees, his padding askew and ripped, no protection at all against the fury of plastique.

"Ray!" Bodie shouted, the acrid smoke coating his throat. He could barely hear himself, and knew that the ambient noise level was incredible—the thunder of the flames, the pounding water hitting the fire, the frantic yells and calls from the other emergency personnel all combined into one massive dissonance. Doyle probably couldn't hear him, either. "Angelfish!" he hollered.

Somehow, that roused Doyle. He raised his head, orienting toward his partner. Doyle groaned, but Bodie was elated. Nothing a few plasters and paracetamol wouldn't fix—that, and some hot buttered rum once he was tucked up in bed.

"Hey, hey, what're you doing lying here on the kerb like some Dickensian character?" Bodie hooked one arm under Doyle's. This close to C&A, the heat from the fire was hellish. Bodie could feel the hairs on his arm—under his shirt and jacket—singe, and his mouth dried to dust in seconds, making it hard to talk. "Time to get out!"

"Bo—" Doyle cried out in pain, but Bodie wasn't taking no for an answer. He hauled his partner up and propelled him away from the blast zone just as flames erupted from the Christmas supper window display. One of the fairy manikins burned merrily, a Christmassy Guy Fawkes, bright sparks bursting around her like festive fireworks.

"Chester?" Doyle said into Bodie's ear, coughing when they landed in a heap near the van.

Not sure which one was Chester, Bodie shook his head, but Doyle pointed wearily at the bomb disposal guy coming to a stop nearby. His buddies rushed over to aid him, so Bodie turned back to his own. Doyle's eyebrows were gone, and a nasty red flash burn highlighted the right side of his face. Blood from a scalp wound dripped down over the burn, and he held his right arm awkwardly—but _damn_ , he was alive.

"You were too fucking close to the building With no protection! What'd you go do that for?" Bodie shouted, feeling incredibly protective.

"Bloody…" Doyle coughed, wincing with every inhalation, his gory face murderous. "Shit, shit, shit…bloody IRA."

"I'll tell 'em you said so." Bodie pulled Doyle close and gave him a rough hug.

"Get off! My shoulder's dislocated, you cack-handed oaf!" Doyle yelled, but he stayed against Bodie, his face buried in Bodie's neck. He coughed, panting with the effort. "Think this'll get us a Christmas bonus?

Bodie laughed in spite of everything, grateful, just as the medics descended on them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Lucas and McCabe led a raid on a known IRA stronghold and nicked six men," Bodie announced, coming in from the cold like Father Christmas with a pack over his shoulder.

"What took you so long?" Doyle said peevishly from the couch. He hated being side-lined when there was work to be done. Even though the brass at CI5 considered a dislocated shoulder, concussion and burns expected work related injuries, he was still on medical leave until after Christmas. With the increased IRA activity, he wanted to be chasing down suspects to work off some of his anger and grief over the dead and wounded.

"Shopping, wasn't I?" Bodie shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair. "I'll have to sneak back to Harrods to get some scent for me nan another day. The store has already announced that they will reopen by Tuesday, and Fortnum and Mason sustained so little damage to the actual building that they will be serving tea and scones to all comers on Monday. C&A, I'm afraid, is out for a fortnight, at least. Luckily, you and young Chester were the only ones injured in that explosion." He placed the holdall on the coffee table.

"And you," Doyle added savagely.

Bodie shrugged, holding up a scraped palm.

"Six people dead at Harrods, four injured at Fortnum and Mason. It's barbaric." Doyle shifted the sling on his right arm and eyed the mysterious bag, the raw anger in his chest thrumming in time with his aching head. "Did we get the men responsible, or just the odd journeymen eager to be included in the IRA's publicity?"

"Only time—and The Cow's interrogation techniques—will tell." Bodie unpacked the bag with a distracted air, taking out grapes, a bottle of rum, a Roses assortment decorated with a huge red plastic bow, and several Chinese take-away containers.

"I'm assuming the grapes are for the invalid." Doyle pointed at himself and popped a few grapes into his mouth left-handed. "And the choccies are for you, but who ordered Chinese?"

"We are celebrating, my good man." Bodie winked at Doyle with a smirk.

"Oh?" Doyle lay back against the pillows, taking in his partner's long legs and handsome face.

Bodie had dark circles under his eyes and there was still the odd smear of possibly soot behind his left ear. He'd changed out of the ripped trousers into the pair he kept in his locker at headquarters. His right palm was raw and glistening with antibiotic cream and the left one sported white gauze wrapped twice around. Bodie looked beyond tired after the exhausting day, but surprisingly ebullient.

"With you on the sidelines, there'll be no stake-outs or other unwanted duty around the hols," Bodie said over his shoulder, going into Doyle's kitchen. "We have Christmas and Boxing Day free."

"You watch yourself, with an attitude like that," Doyle warned, investigating the first food container. Holding it awkwardly with his injured arm, he folded back the lid. One sniff told him it was sweet and sour pork for Bodie. The next one yielded fried rice for him. The last box held several won tons that they could both share. "The old man gets wind of such optimism, he will find something for you to do faster than you can say Jack Robinson."

"Shut your gob," Bodie said mildly. "And where's the butter?"

"Where it ought to be—in the butter dish," Doyle said. "And bring us a fork, too."

"I was thinking that we could drive down to Little-Wesley-on-Mersey to bring Nan her gift properly." Bodie came back to dump forks and a bowl beside Doyle and pick up the bottle of rum. He filched a won ton, too. "We could stop by Derby, watch one of your nieces in the Christmas play. How many do you have by now?"

Truly touched by Bodie's suggestion, Doyle pretended that it didn't mean a great deal to him. He stabbed one of the won tons with a fork. "Six girls between the four sisters, and three sons."

"Could have an entire nativity scene with just Doyle-y offspring." Bodie went back into the kitchen, humming snatches of the Wassailing song.

"Except for Mary Margaret and her brood, long since emigrated to Australia." Doyle ate some Chinese wondering what the hell Bodie was doing banging about in the cupboards, clanging pots and mixing bowls together. He wasn't sure he should ask. His face stung fiercely but he ignored that, too, concentrating on finding a bit of peace on this awful day. "You have faith that Cowley will give us leave to go up north on Christmas Eve."

"He's not Ebenezer Scrooge," Bodie said, looking over at him with such an unexpected expression of near loss and need that Doyle was momentarily humbled. "He's well aware that you could have died."

 _For the second year in a row—_ hung in the air between them.

"I didn't," Doyle whispered, despair for what he had unknowingly put Bodie through weighing heavily. He knew that fear, had felt it in his own heart more than once when they were facing danger. He flashed on Bodie lying on a stretcher, stabbed and bleeding, and shuddered. Ducking over the fried rice, he hid the fear once more, just as he knew Bodie was doing in the kitchen. Over the aroma of rice, prawns and peas, he caught the redolence of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves. What _was_ Bodie making?

"Yeah." Bodie breathed out slowly, stirring something in a pot. "Would have put quite a damper on the lighting of Nan's Christmas pud if you had."

Doyle laughed abruptly which made his head hurt worse, but eased the knot of anger in his chest. "There I'd be, not yet cold in the grave, and you're tucking into the figgy pudding and hard sauce?"

"Cannot break with tradition, Raymond," Bodie said loftily, taking down large china mugs. One had Big Ben on the side, and the other said _"Pull my cracker"_ decorated with a red and gold Christmas cracker. Bodie's gift to Doyle from last year. He poured the fragrant mixture he'd prepared into each cup, and carried them on a tray into the lounge, still humming the old English Christmas song. "Cheers, mate!"

"Mmm." Doyle abandoned the take-away because he only had one hand, and sniffed the heavenly brew. The fumes from the hot buttered rum were enough to make his aching head swim, and he took a careful sip. Brilliant. Lovely warmth eased down his throat, smoothing away the worst of his grief. "Here and I thought you didn't know your way around a cooker."

"Every young man should know how to make two things to impress." Bodie clinked his cup to Doyle's and drank deeply.

Amused, Doyle took another drink, savouring the harmony of rum, spices and butter. "And that would be?"

Giving him a look that clearly said he should already know, Bodie licked his bottom lip. "Beans on toast and hot buttered rum."

"I am impressed."

"Thought you might be." Bodie grinned wolfishly. "And the choccies are _not_ for me, Doctor Who." He tugged on the tartan scarf Doyle still wore around his neck because it was cold in his flat. "They are for Miss Charlotte Mills and her mum who will be coming 'round tomorrow to say their thanks before collecting Sir Robert from Heathrow." He took long swallow of rum and peered into his cup as if surprised to find it empty. "I already have my pressie."

"What would that be?" Doyle asked, even though he was certain he already knew. Just as he was more than satisfied with the gift of the man sitting smack up against him.

"A slightly concussed golly with a broken wing and his eyebrows burned off. Looks like a fledgling that fell from the nest." Bodie moved the scant inches between them and kissed Doyle.

"Not broken," Doyle retorted after returning the kiss with interest, wistful for more, but just turning his head to meet Bodie's mouth hurt. "When exactly are Charlie and her mother coming by?"

"Half past eleven." Bodie eased a gentle hand around Doyle's good shoulder, obviously about to do a little more than simply kiss, but he winced instead.

"There won't be any cardio workouts in the bed, will there?"

Bodie gently touched the bandage on Doyle's brow with an unreadable expression. "Not bloody likely."

"Then lay with me, William Andrew Phillip Bodie," Doyle said softly, unable to say what it was he really wanted to say. _Don't ever leave. Be mine always. I love you more than life._ Those were too much and not at all enough to begin to cover how he felt. This was just one day in a line that would stretch through their lives—it had been horrible, but there would be other good ones to outweigh the bad. They had survived.

As long as they were together, nothing else mattered as much.

"Planned on it, mate. All night and all morning." Bodie kissed him again, tasting of rum and sweetness. "Happy Christmas, Ray."

"And to you."

FIN

 _Love and joy come to you, and to you your wassail, too, and God send you a happy new year…._


End file.
